Poison's Remedy
by Abandoned-Senses
Summary: Christine is haunted by the Phantom's presence, but is determined to lock him out of her mind. She continues her life with Raoul, but when the war erupts, a new path is forced upon her.
1. Chapter One

Chapter One

_Embraced by the protective darkness, his filthy attire blended with the surroundings, his form melting into the night. Black hair, tangled with grime and stale perspiration, spilled over his face, which was covered by a layer of dirt and various fresh scratches. Only his white mask shone in the faint moonlight, giving off an unnatural glow._

_The man was half-sitting amid a rubble of broken glass, trembling with an unknown emotion. Head drawn toward his knees and arms wrapped around his legs, he appeared to be trying to find some sort of comfort in a makeshift hug. He was rocking back and forth on his heals, occasionally releasing a helpless moan. His fingers were steadily turning an ominous shade of white, digging forcefully into his legs with unspoken determination._

_Without a warning, the figure's head snapped up, revealing a pair of glowing eyes. Inside the orbs, an eternity of broken emotions was locked up. Burning hate, crushing despair, intolerable rejection, and endless longing fought with each other, each briefly resurfacing, only to be pulled down once again by its companions. Yet the shadow of numb acceptance constantly remained._

_A single word escaped the man, the growl of his whisper lingering acidly in the air._

"_Christine."_

Christine's eyes flew open, naked terror etched into every shade of her heated face. A layer of cold sweat formed itself along the back of her neck, while a shudder launched itself down her spine.

Trying to steady her labored breathing, she inhaled deep breaths of the soothing July air that flowed in through a slightly ajar window. Closing her eyes, Christine tried to erase the images that followed her from the nightmares, only to find them burned horribly accurately on the inside of her eyelids.

For the past few weeks, Christine's fitful slumber was relentlessly haunted by the same images, the same actions, the same muttered name. Every night she would be greeted by the same pitiful sight of her bedraggled angel slowly falling apart.

It has come to the point that his broken face lingered before hers even while being shielded by the graceful arms of sunlight, casting a growing shadow of guilt to constantly lurk around her heels. Her uttered name was blended with the soft flow of evening breezes; his crumbled form inhabited various darkened corners of the Chagny household. And the eyes- Oh God, the eyes!

Scarred with hopelessness and final surrender, the twins of endless tangled emotions haunted Christine's living hours. The loss was overwhelming, but the raw loathing was unbearable. She had seen brief displeasure and annoyance flash through his eyes, but never such strong hate. Was it even possible for a single human being to posses such feelings?

The young Vicomtesse sighed and rolled over. Rhythmic chirping of crickets eventually caressed her thundering heartbeat back to a reasonable pace. However, only when the first faint rays of the rising sun announced their master's entrance did the woman fall back into a fitful slumber.

Chirping birds enthusiastically dragged Christine from her sleep. Stretching, she let out an unladylike yawn and pushed herself out of bed. Letting her thin feet glide into a pair of slippers, Christine stumbled sleepily through the bedroom and made her way to the downstairs parlour.

Picking up a small porcelain figure shaped in the form of a swan, she absent-mindedly ran her fingers repeatedly down the smooth curve of its neck, jumbled thoughts woven throughout her body.

All had been well the half-year or so after the wedding to her dear Raoul. However, the past few weeks' worth of sleeping were filled with nothing other than the repeated image of her bitter angel. At first, guilt and shame flooded Christine's body, growing and expanding on her thoughts. These emotions took a physical toll on the Vicomtesse, dramatically changing her eating habits and cutting back on the amount of sleep. As a result, mirrored dark semicircles found themselves inhabiting the area below Christine's eyes, and her dresses hung loosely over her. Now, the guilt subsided and was replaced by a spark of annoyance. Couldn't he release her of his spell? Was she to remain an eternal prisoner of his, punished by the ghost of his remaining soul? She knew that she betrayed her companion, her irreplaceable teacher, the one person that was closer to the figure of her father than anyone else, but couldn't the pain go away?

Christine replaced the porcelain swan back to its place, bringing is down harder than necessary. A tiny crack appeared along the figurine's neck. Frustrated by her own confusion, she let out a tired sigh.

"Madam?" came a timid voice.

Turning around, Christine noticed her maid standing uncertainly near the doorway.

"Madam, forgive me. I did not expect for you to rise so early. Your breakfast will be served as soon as possible. Perhaps you would like a nice mug of warm tea while you wait,Madame deChagny?"

Christine adapted what she hoped was a warm smile and nodded. A cup of tea could never do any harm. "That would be lovely. And do not worry about my early rise, I was merely a bit restless."

Faint concern started to peek its way into the maid's eyes, but she simply performed a grateful bow. "Thank you, madam."

Without a backward glance, the maid disappeared into the kitchen.

Deciding she might as well wash up and get dressed, Christine made her way back upstairs. Careful not to disturb her sleeping husband, she quietly opened the door, closing it with a stifled _click_. Turning around, Christine was surprised to find Raoul already sitting up in bed, his torso propped up against the wall.

Letting out a faint smile in response to the look of surprise that flashed across his wife's face, Raoul inspected her disheveled form.

_Tired_, he thought to himself, _like always._

"Good morning, my love. Why are you up so early?" he inquired.

Christine mumbled something about not being very tired and shifted her gaze to the floor.

Raoul frowned, but knew that his wife wouldn't reveal anything else at the time. "I was thinking of riding over to the Fournier's after lunch today and drop in for some tea. Would you like that?"

Christine nodded, feeling the far-away feeling of tears forming inside. Raoul had apparently noticed the change in Christine, for he was constantly beckoning her to eat her food and get a good night's sleep. He was careful to always handle her in a gentle manner, shielding her from the unknown enemies, yet still treating her like the young woman that she was. He had tried to draw Christine out of the house and introduce her to a few of his friends, believing that socializing would ward off a few of her worries.

Gratitude bubbled through Christine's body, silently thanking Raoul for his patience. Even though she didn't particularly enjoy going to various get-togethers where she was required to sit still and discuss issues completely irrelevant to her life, she knew that Raoul was doing this for her. Christine was determined to act her happiest today.

Tired relief settled on Raoul's face, thankful that Christine accepted his offer. Sliding out of bed, he made his way toward her frail figure, a mischievous smile beginning to appear at the corners of his lips. "And in the evening, perhaps, we can take a nice stroll through the park."

Christine smiled and some of her former youthful beauty and charm reappeared. "The park sounds fabulous."

Embracing her small body, Raoul let his hand wander within her rich curls that framed her face. His other arm supported her back, which felt unusually thin below his touch. Frowning once more, he made a mental note to supervise Christine closer during dinner. He pulled her tighter into his hug.

"Take care of yourself, my darling."

The meeting with the Fournier's finally finished, the couple made their way through the otherwise empty park. Adjacent to the Chagny estate, it was easy to mistake the park as an extension to the Chagny's own filed of green. Illuminated by the lights that smiled through the windows and the shimmer of overhead stars, the pair was bathed in a subtle tone of warm silver.

Arms interwoven, they strolled along the path, sharing words containing teasing secrets. Christine's bell-like giggle rang in the air, its owner furiously blushing at one of Raoul's compliments. Running ahead, she tugged her husband along, her mind filled with memories of the simple love of their childhood.

Pleasantly surprised at his wife's relit energy, Raoul followed, easily sweeping her into an embrace. Gently tilting her head back with his finger, her relaxed features swept past his face and focused on something behind him.

Christine gasped. Floating underneath the moon, a lone cloud was illuminated, revealing the silhouette of a man, his wings crushed and trailing behind him.

_No_, she thought. _It's just my imagination. It's just a cloud._ Why was he still following her? Why was it his figure she saw while wrapped safely in Raoul's arms?

Thoroughly annoyed, she brought her gaze back to Raoul, a new type of gleam in her eyes. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she leaned forward and brought her lips forcefully onto Raoul, who now stood with obvious shock. Christine kissed hard, all of the bottled up frustration and doubt rushing through her. Dangerous feelings flowed over her, causing her to pull closer toward Raoul.

She vowed to end the phantom's presence once and for all.


	2. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

Waving a last goodbye to the disappearing figure of her husband, Christine sighed and turned around. Sitting alone in the carriage, she gazed out of the window, waiting for Paris to come into view. She decided to go back and say a final farewell, bidding her shame goodbye forever. Then she could put her teenage years behind and focus on her new, structured and simple life.

Of course, Raoul was oblivious to her plan. Christine told him that she was visiting an old friend that invited her. Ecstatic to see her get together with the outside world out of her own will, he agreed readily to the proposal, his approval evident in every word. Now, as his form faded with the front door of his house, person and wood blending with the aid of increasing distance, Christine felt a faint pang of betrayal. Yet, she was aware that if he knew her true destination, he would be cautious with her departure, probably accompanying her or even forbidding the ridiculous request. His philosophy was that wounds healed best when the memory of their birth was forgotten, buried underneath layers of blind ignorance.

Deciding that this would be the last untruthful act to her husband, she brought her mind back to the purpose of her journey. Her wandering thoughts were broken by the abrupt halt of her transportation.

Inviting her senses to the present, Christine glanced out of the window. She frowned, unable to recognize her surroundings.

"My whole-hearted apologies, Vicomtesse de Chagny," came the voice of the driver. "One of the horses made an unexpected stop. I assure you that it will not happen again."

Acknowledging the apology with a curt word of acceptance, Christine settled back against her seat. However, this time she kept her focus on the increasingly crowded streets that made up the many mazes of Paris. Several turns later, a particular structure earned Christine's full attention. The elaborate curves in the silhouette seemed oddly familiar.

The memory hit Christine like lightning. _La Boulangerie De Bounet!_ Granted a day to simply relax at the opera house, Christine and Meg decided to venture outside; wearing their lightest clothing for it was an extremely warm August day. Giggling energetically and eyes shining with whole-heated freedom, the girls walked along the streets, stopping at many different windows, eyes greedily examining the various goods that sparkled in the sunlight.

Finally, they reached a bakery. Not eating anything since the light breakfast that seemed ages ago, they easily surrendered to the aroma of fresh bread that wafted boldly through the air. Falling in love with the pleasant atmosphere and delicious assortment of sweets and rolls that were constantly available, it soon became a tradition to visit _La Boulangerie De Bounet_ whenever granted permission and time.

Now with the presence of the building a few step away from Christine, a renewed wave of uneasiness flooded through her. The shop meant that it was no more than a few minutes' walk to the Opera Populaire. Behind every turn, new architecture was recognized by the Vicomtesse, fresh recollections resurfacing in her mind. The post office, the barber's shop, the opera grounds. The opera grounds…

"We have arrived, madam," the driver's voice came again, voicing Christine's thoughts.

Taking a deep breath, as though to fill up on courage, she stepped out of the carriage.

The Opera Populaire towered above her. The fire's feast was evident; corners were crumbled, wood was burned away, windows lay shattered, and the entrance sign was in pieces, chipped and no longer readable, yet the building was still bathed in glory. Broken statues still raised their arms toward the heavens; the roof still thrust itself closer to the Lord.

"Madam, are you alright?"

Christine turned around and nodded. Handing the uneasy man the required amount of francs, she stated her thanks and dismissed the carriage.

Moving automatically, Christine glided toward the main doors, her feet functioning with their own will. As more memories flooded her shaking body and new signs of destruction became apparent, clouds of doubt settled in her mind. Was this really such a good idea?

Before her warning thoughts took advantage of her, Christine placed both hands on the cold brass handles and pulled the wooden doors open.

No one paid any attention to the lone figure that ventured into the Opera Populaire.

The sight that greeted her brought paralyzed tears close to the surface of her eyes. Inside, the opera house lay crumbled in evident submission. The fresh colors that once covered the walls were now monochromatic shades of fire's death. The magnificent ceilings no longer featured angels and hope, but random holes that allowed cloaked rays of sunlight to trespass into the building. Dust danced freely through the thick air, while a lone pigeon fluttered somewhere high above the Vicomtesse, moving to a new perch in what appeared to nowadays be its new home. The opera house was no longer a shrine that represented Paris's rich artistic life, but a grave that revealed France's past. A grave…

Christine de Chagny made her way toward the grand staircase, her mind unable to absorb the destruction. When she left with Raoul seven months ago- _was it only seven months? God, it felt like an eternity_-, they exited the building through some tunnel that eventually led to a dark alley behind the burning opera house. She had been spared of seeing the fire's cost. Until now.

Christine placed her foot on the first step. She made up her mind to bid this haunted place good-bye in a correct manner, and she was determined to complete her mission. She wanted to say good-bye from the box seats, looking down for the last time at the stage like any audience member would before leaving. It's only proper to loose something in the same place that one first gained it.

She reached the second step_. Where had it all gone wrong?_ It seemed that her life had been crumbling ever since the death of her father. At the time, she greeted the voice of her angel with open arms, desiring any thread that would link her to her dear father. Why did the phantom have to appear? She would have ultimately mingled with the other girls after her grief was washed away. She would have been an average ballet dancer, living to perform and dancing to be seen.

The third step brought a bundle of fresh memories. The first time that Erik led her to his lair. The terror that was present in her body, along with the want for comfort and a natural woman's curiosity that proved to be victorious. His first touch- so cold, yet it brought warm shivers over her entire body.

Fourth step. The complete outrage as she removed his mask for the first time. Damn her curiosity. The desperate longing in his voice afterwards, calling silently for her forgiveness. She had given it to him, pain wrapping its icy fingers tightly around her heart.

The fifth step now supported Christine's weight. Don Juan. _Don Juan Triumphant._ When he appeared, she was helpless to do anything other than once again loose herself to his raw words. The feeling of his hands around her neck- hands that were for the first time ungloved. She had indeed abandoned all of her senses, playing along perhaps a bit too well, for by her second verse, she was completely unsure of the song's meaning. Completely succumbed was she.

Sixth step. Candlelight. Seventh. Masks. Another rise. Gondolas. Another. Cloaks and the fragrance of his aura. One more step. Love. Trust. Hope. Betrayal.

Christine's mind was swarming by the time she reached the top of the staircase. Every limb was shaking as the passed the entrance to the performance hall, subconsciously stepping around any holes that dwelled in the floor. She entered the nearest box. More destruction greeted her sore eyes. The curtains were gone, a ghastly shadow of ash in its place. Moths and other critters now inhabited the broken chairs.

Making her way toward the edge of the balcony, Christine peered at the scene underneath. The stage.

_Too many years fighting back tears… Why can't the past just die?_

Christine dropped to her knees, finally surrendering to the tears. They flowed steadily down her face, each drop of her soul containing an infinity of sorrow. A sob escaped her lips, echoing throughout the room, mocking her grief. Her body shook, feverish prayers asking for forgiveness sliding out of her mouth.

_Help me say goodbye…_

_It's over. This is the end. I have made a wicked choice, but how could I become a prisoner to the dungeons of his black mind? Of course I desired him, I craved for him- how could I not? I crumbled every time his body made contact with mine. But I was scared- his power was overwhelming. His love so strong. If I chose Raoul… how could I go wrong by burrowing my head into safety's embrace? Oh God, stop torturing me like this. Help me forget. Help me leave this behind. Help me stop remembering the devil's angel._

The tears were now rushing steadily, retracing their path along her cheeks. Christine released a moan, wishing it all to end. "Please stop…" she muttered between sobs.

"Would you kindly stop the racket and retreat out of my box?" a deep voice slithered through the air.

Christine stiffened, a sob disappearing somewhere halfway between her throat and mouth, as horror flooded her body.


	3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Christine whirled around, eyes widening as she faced the masked figure.

The man stared at the girl kneeling before him, mouth slightly opening in disbelief. A shadow of painful recognition passed over his face before he adapted the usual look that conveyed no real emotions.

Taking a visible breath, he broke the silence.

"What are you doing here?" he whispered, his tone cracked.

"Erik…" Christine began, her own voice several pitches higher than normal. She only found herself at a loss of words. What _was_ she doing here? Surely she couldn't tell him the truth. Using the back of her hand to wipe away the tears, she tried to regain her composure in a manner than seemed somewhat natural. Standing up to a pair of trembling legs, Christine noticed that she still hadn't closed her mouth. She quickly did so. Realizing that the man before her was still waiting for a response, she finished lamely, "I-I… wasn't expecting you."

Her eyes briefly flew over him before finally meeting his gaze. He wore his traditional black attire, with only the wine red collar of a shirt silhouetted against his pale neck. His scarce hair was safely tucked away, hidden beneath the familiar wig, which was as carefully applied as usual. A fedora rested neatly on top of his head, casting a faint mass of darkness on Erik's face. The white mask covered half of his face.

"Yes… people usually don't," he replied simply.

Christine remained silent, focusing her attention on simply trying to control her breathing. She shifted her gaze, finding the phantom's stare unbearable with the increase of unspoken tension. Even so, she felt his eyes piercing through her.

"I see that you are thrilled with your new life," Erik began, his voice once again completely steady.

Christine became aware how pathetic she must look. Crying her heart out at the old opera house… of course she must transmit the image of a truly unhappy woman.

Erik continued. "Apparently your choice proves to be for the better of both of us."

She brought her head up again, only to find a bitter smile lingering underneath his mask.

"My life is quite comfortable," she replied with what little pride she could muster.

The phantom looked as if he was going to contradict that statement, but decided against it. Finally he settled on, "I hope it remains so."

With a slight tip of his fedora, the figure turned, his majestic cape flying behind him, and proceeded out of Box Five.

"Farewell, Vicomtesse," he muttered.

* * *

The phantom stormed through the opera house, blind to anything in his path. All he could think about at the moment was his lair.

He descended into the increasing darkness, subconsciously turning at various corners. Deeper he went, away from the life above the ground. Down another staircase, he made his way effortlessly through the cellars. Soon, he was surrounded by complete darkness. Still, he plunged on. After years of living beneath the building, the many passages became awfully familiar.

Finally, a lone ray of candlelight greeted him. Ducking into the last tunnel, he stepped into his dwelling. Only when he reached the shelter of his organ's presence did he allow for his composure to drop. Staggering toward the wall, he leaned his head against the cold stone, his breath coming out in ragged gasps. His thundering heart betrayed any reassuring thoughts he kept repeating.

"Christine," he moaned, sinking toward the floor. "Why did you return?"

The past few months were hell for Erik. For weeks after Christine's final rejection, he retired to his solitude, feasting on his pain alone. The only activity that Erik could still correctly perform was composing his music. He would spend hours in front of his instrument, trying to pour all of his anguish into the pounded notes, until exhaustion would pull him into a deep sleep.

His routine was interrupted by an uninvited visit from Nadir. Not hearing anything from the phantom since the fire, the daroga ventured to Erik's place, the two men reuniting after over a year of separation. Nadir forced Erik to eat and retell the events that led him to his current state.

After a few days, Erik abandoned his sorrow and became the distant soul that he once was. Nadir persuaded Erik to finally leave his lair and seek something in the outside world. Beginning to get fed up with the daroga's constant comforting suggestions, Erik was ready to do about anything in order to ease Nadir's worried mind and let him be. Digging out his elegant clothes and usual mask, Erik left his lair for the first time since the day of Don Juan's opening and only performance.

Christine was merely a poisonous memory that proved to Erik that he was absolutely alone, born into this world to experience eternal loneliness. Christine was simply a punishment for allowing himself to experience any true human emotions. Agreeing to a contract that Nadir brought in regarding the foundation work for a future structure, Erik decided that a new, if tedious, life would be constructed on the his past life's ashes. True, his life was now without a goal, but his stubborn personality clung onto his pride. No matter the circumstances, he must continue to toy with his genius ideas and sell them to the world.

So, for the first time in seven months, Erik left his lair. The past was just that- in the past. Yet is seemed as if the devil's embrace never weakened on the man, for he had not preceded a few steps through the ground level of the Opera Populairé before a wretched sob slit his conscience. Frowning, he paused his departure. The opera house had been deadly silent since Don Juan. No human sound had reached his ears until now. Erik waited for a minute's time, helplessly attracted to the soulful despair.

Suddenly he grew annoyed with the broken cries, cursing their presence, their bold existence in his house. He followed their echoes, hunting down the source. The chase ironically brought him to Box Five. Smirking, Erik pushed aside the remainder of the curtain and sarcastically invited the inhabitant to leave, a venomous aftertaste following the flavor of pure honey that generously coated his words.

Nothing prepared him for what he saw inside.

Those thick brown curls tumbling over her shoulders, tangled yet so perfect. The frail form kneeling on the floor, her shoulders- thinner than normally- sticking out gracefully on top of her body. Then she turned. The wide eyes, their usual summer sunlight replaced with a dull winter cloak, bulging in horror. Her face, covered with the salty glaze of heated tears.

No, nothing could have prepared him for her return.

His heart abruptly stopped beating, then dived into an unnaturally fast rhythm. Christine…here, a step away from him. Why?

Erik's shock and surprise quickly transformed into anger as he sat on the floor of his lair. He repeatedly pounded his hands against the dirty floor, much like a toddler experiencing a tantrum, stopping only when the skin burst under the continuous forceful pressure.

"Whatever God exists, will you ever stop?" he roared. "I finally decide to move on, only to step into her presence again! Were the years of burning desire painfully hidden inside me not enough for you? Was finally revealing myself to her innocence not big enough of a mistake?"

The phantom of the opera crawled toward his organ. Pulling himself on top of the bench, he poised his hands above the humming keys.

"Was her betrayal of _love_ not enough?"

His fingers tensed, raw blood still gently seeping through the fresh cuts.

"No? You must send her back? Why? Simply to torture me? To prove to me that her body is real, that she still lives, while I died? I _died _seven months ago!"

Erik lowered his arms and pointed to himself with a shaking finger, presenting his body to an unknown being. "_This_ is simply a walking carcass, roaming through the rest of life without any ambition or the slightest care as to what will happen. You don't understand, do you?"

He now growled the words, each syllable lingering in his throat before erupting into the air. His words originally intended for God seemed to be aimed at a different object now. "I couldn't care less what life throws at me next. The sooner it ends, the better. You did this to me!" he spat. "You made me realize that there is truly nothing in life worth living for. I was foolish to ever think otherwise."

Once again, his arms rose. Without the slightest hesitation, Erik's hands fell against the keys, his fingers producing the opening chords of an unwritten symphony. The phantom played, blood mixing with tears, creating a strictly wicked composition that reflected nothing short of his heart. Hell's duet of vengeance and despondency awakened, and as his soul finally broke, he pounded harder, determined to project his hateful notes to the heavens above.

* * *

After her tears stopped flowing, Christine remained in Box Five, numb and silent. Finally, when her knees began to scream for a change of position, she got up and walked out of the opera house, not murmuring another word or shedding another glance at the building.

Automatically, she halted a carriage, named her destination, and sat still until the last buildings of Paris vanished from view.

_Satisfied?_ She asked herself in a harsh tone. _You do have a talent for improving a situation, my dear._

Her frown turned into a childish pout as a light drizzle began to fall. The sky was painted in grays, completely covered with dark clouds.

_That _is_ what you wanted, isn't it? _She went on. _A final goodbye? Now, the truth is perfectly clear._

However she imagined Erik after all those months, it was not in his former isolated manner. Of course, she didn't expect him to lay himself at her feet and beg for her acceptance, but he seemed so… normal. Definitely not the destroyed man that haunted her dreams. Why, he had treated her as if nothing ever happened between them, as if she were any other woman. He wasn't mad, he didn't seek revenge; he was oddly silent and in control of all his senses. His lack of emotions was the most disturbing part. He had always radiated something- disapproval, yearning, discomfort, love- and now, nothing.

_The angel has dismissed you._

His presence did shock her, but it was perfectly acceptable. The opera house, burned or not, was still his property and he had every right to inhabit it.

The brougham reached the Chagny property. No more tears came that night, no remorseful emotions visited Christine. She stepped out of the carriage, paid the man, and entered the household.

"Yes, I had a lovely lunch," she lied easily when Raoul anxiously inquired about her day.

After explaining that the weather made her feel rather tired, the Vicomtesse said nothing else and retreated to her bedroom. A slightly confused Raoul joined her minutes later.

That night, Christine reflected the lightning outside.

* * *

**A/N:** My apologies for the ridiculously long wait for this chapter! We had a medical emergency in the family, which took toll on all of us, and then I had a rather annoying writer's block. Good news is that I have a rather nice chunk of the next chapter drafted, so that shouldn't take too long. :-) Also, sorry for any confusion with the spacing of this chapter. The horizontal lines won't stay when I update, and my other methods won't work either. Please bear with me.


	4. Chapter Four

**Author's Note:** Should I even bother apologizing and listing excuses? I'm afraid that that will only degrade me more... but I am terribly sorry for the long wait. However, school is done for the summer, so I have a tremendous amount of more time to write. Problem is, I am going to be lounging throughout Europe until August, so my computer access will be limited.

Now, about Chapter Four. I gave up on it... Writing undeserved C\R-ness has uninspired me. It is horribly written, but I can't force myself to come up with edits that I fit suitable. However, the next chapter (which is all written out already:-) Just have to type it up and edit) is more to my liking. And I still can't figure out how to use the cursed horizontal line tool TT

* * *

Days passed and a change was evident in the young Vicomtesse. After her mysterious night of storm, she adopted a mood that Raoul had not seen since their childhood get-togethers. The shield around her fell apart, revealing a devoted wife. More smiles blossomed on her face and a new type of open air generally surrounded her. Raoul decided that he must send his wife out for lunch more often.

At first, Christine moved into her new routine with slight hesitation, but eventually joined the promising flow. Now that she felt the chain no longer binding her to Erik, she forced herself to ignore all traces of guilt. Obviously, he didn't seem to care tremendously much about her anymore, as his eyes portrayed no anguish, his smirk was not wrapped in a cocoon of sorrow, and his voice did not containan edge of helplessness. She could not seem to detect any hint of corrupted emotions that might reveal themselves through his stony shield. If such a man as Erik could learn to bid good-bye to his past and cut all bonds of obsession, surely Christine could somehow extinguish the flame of shame and twisted craving. Indeed… now there was only Raoul.

It was in September that Christine found out that she was pregnant. Missing her monthly companion, she requested a visit from the family doctor, Monsieur Lévesque. Her suspicions were confirmed. Stepping out to Raoul, who had excused himself and proceeded to wait in the living room, she passed along the news.

The handkerchief that was brutally being twisted in his suddenly clumsy hands stopped.

The look of priceless shock disappeared when Raoul managed to completely absorb the simple announcement. Instead, an abnormally large grin erupted across his face, its warm color mirroring the lights of exquisite happiness dancing freely in his eyes.

He picked up his wife and spun her through the air, careful to avoid hitting any limbs against the assortment of furniture that stood in the room. He released a triumphant laugh. "A child Christine! Our child!"

He replaced the Vicomtesse feet safely on the ground and planted several kisses on her face, his aim for the tip of her nose soon discarded.

"You, a mother!" he added with a proud look.

Giggling at his giddy behavior, Christine returned a kiss before pulling away from the embrace. Walking toward the patio, she was bathed by the sun's bright smile, painted with vibrant hues of gold. Leaning over a wooden railing, she let out a content sigh.

"Yes, me a mother. I only hope that I will provide him with enough shelter and affection. Motherhood is an absorbing job, after all…" her voice trailed off.

Raoul joined her at the edge of the patio. "Don't worry, my darling. You'll be a perfect mother. Caring, patient, gentle… you have all of the skills required. And in case there will be any problems, I'll be here. Me, the baby's father."

"Perhaps that's what worries me the most," she replied with a teasing smile.

This remark only earned a short laugh and another shower of kisses. Raoul was the first to pull away this time, a new energy surrounding him.

"We willll need to build a nursery! The spare bedroom upstairs… it's perfect! It overlooks the park, and a sunset will always lull him to sleep. We will have to decorate it, of course. Blues and reds? That is, if he will be a boy. I honestly do hope so, a strong little lad to follow in his father's footsteps. Not that I would mind a girl," he quickly added after receiving a questioning glance from his wife. "Another beautiful lady in my household! We have so much to do. We shall have to find some suitable furniture first, of course-"

Raoul was cut off by the clear laughter of Christine. His face dropped, afraid that he had said something wrong.

After Christine regained her breath, she innocently apologized. "I'm sorry, it's just that I have never seen you so excited before. Frantically fretting and planning minute additions to the nursery is usually the mother's job."

Raoul grinned sheepishly and remarked something about new traditional preparations.

"I do wish that the child will arrive peacefully. No illnesses or anything. Oh, that would be simply dreadful," Christine absent-mindedly stated her thoughts.

She automatically cursed herself for the careless comment as she saw a new expression come over Raoul. "I'm just being silly. It'll be all right. Now, about the nursery… do you think that blue curtains would work well with the landscape seen through the window?"

A fresh smile blossomed on her husband's face. "That will be wonderful! In addition, we can paint a mural on the west wall… perhaps of the sea? I'm sure that we can incorporate a red scarf in there somewhere. For the trimmings…"

The couple made their way upstairs, Raoul's ideas becoming more and more extravagant.

* * *

Over the next few months, a daily routine was acquired. Raoul's excitement proved to be contagious, quickly turning Christine into an extremely eager woman. The Vicomte would leave for work each morning, return in the evening for dinner, then spend the remainder of the day bouncing off ideas regarding the baby with his wife.

The nursery ended up receiving a sea-oriented theme. Professional painters were hired to produce the desired image on the wall, and Christine persuaded Raoul to paint the remaining colors pale blue. Raoul argued that if the baby would be a girl, the walls would overwhelm her, but the Vicomtesse stood her ground, patiently explaining that blue was a soothing color, perfectly fitting for a girl. Plus, pink didn't quite compile well with the ocean tones portrayed in the painting. Curtains were hung, baseboard were sanded, trimmings decorated, a pale carpet installed (although Christine had doubts regarding how long the material would remain in its whitish state), and furniture ordered from the most talented carpenter in France.

Preparations were truly boiling.

Now, all that was left to do was to wait and choose an appealing name from the endless list of possibilities. Raoul suggested that Raoul the Second was a suiting name, but Christine quickly banished that that.

"One Raoul is all that I need," she finished her reasons with a smile.

Finally, on March 21, 1869, Matthieu was born. Nothing unusual happened during the birth, and a new heir to Raoul de Chagny was successfully introduced to the world.

Many kisses and fond looks were exchanged that night, as the couple bid restful nights farewell. The cries that broke the silence, that once contracted their hearts with pride and send them running to the newborn, now invited tiredness to fill their bodies. Over the days, they stoppedlounging at his crib at the slightest whimper, but playfully bribed each other to go consult his fretful cries. Yet, Matthieu was shown nothing short of fierce love as he developed into a toddler. All of his needs were met, all of his main desires fulfilled, and all of his problems eliminated. The Chagny household proved to be a cherished haven for the family as Matthieu grew.


	5. Chapter Five

**A\N: **Here it is... Enjoy :-) Now... I am leaving for London soon (who in the world flies over to London for a day to see Phantom? ) , then proceding to get handed from one relative\friend\other type of person to another. I have no idea when I will be able to get hold of a computer with internet connection again. Hopefully soon. But know that I am writing!

* * *

**Chapter Five**

"Matthieu, hold still, _s'il tu plaît_," Christine begged in a desperate voice. At eighteen months, the little lad possessed enough energy to consume all of Christine's patience and worries.

In response, the toddler let out a high-pitched laugh and once again threw off his hat.

Christine glared, then sighed in defeat. Already, the trip to the museum proved to be more trouble than it was worth. At least the gloves stayed on this time…

"Ma_-man!_" the impatient boy spurted the word, clinging onto his guardian's arm.

Christine retrieved the disposed hat, carefully picked up her child, and propped him securely on her hip. Placing a quick peck on his forehead, she walked out of her house.

A gust of chilling air greeted her. The sky was relatively bare and the sun was allowed to bathe the world in its presence, a sight that pleased the Vicomtesse. It was mid-September, and a season of stubborn cold weather descended upon the Northern part of France. In addition, it generously brought along its faithful companion- a series of clouds that seemed to hold their throne in the sky until the end of time. Today, pity seemed to be shed upon the area's inhabitants, and the shield floating in the sky was blown away. However, while the sun could once again face the earth, it did not mean that the low temperatures and biting wind left.

Pulling Matthieu closer to her, Christine gazed out across the landscape. The trees began to paint their leaves with vibrant hues of warm colours, marking the beginning of the year's annual dance. Involuntarily, a simple song about autumn's march appeared in her mind. Almost hesitantly, she hummed the short verse, examining her son's contours the whole time. As soon as her last note faded into the wind, he began to fidget.

The suppressed energy rushing through him, along with a collection of various items that seemed to be of unbelievable interest, quickly caused Matthieu to wriggle out of Christine's protective embrace and stumble upon the ground with a pair of shaky feet. Placing one foot in front of the other in a focused manner, he reached his goal: a pile of colourful pebbles carelessly discarded along the edge of the path.

Poking them timidly with a stick that was conveniently resting on the ground, Matthieu leaned over the rocks. He poked again, and the top pebble rolled leisurely to the ground. Grinning, the toddler turned toward his mother, pride of his accomplishments obviously evident. Pointing at his toys, he poked again. Another tumbling pebble caused him to squeal in delight.

Christine smiled and held out her hand. There would be no point in visiting the Rennes Museum if her baby would be grumpy with a desire to sleep. "Let's go, my little one."

After several more beckonings, Matthieu reluctantly returned, and the couple proceeded slowly down the road. After several unsuccessful attempts at catching disturbed birds, the little boy resigned to simply stomping lazily a step behind Christine.

Soon, the silhouette of the museum became visible, its red roof cheerfully standing between two ancient trees. Its walls were built with white bricks and thick wooden windows revealed only small portions of the plethora of artistic materials inside. Twin towers spiralled on either side of the structure, alluding to a master's castle, yet possessing the cheerful qualities of a child's building blocks. On one end, a flag bearing the French colours waved proudly, while on the other side, a flag bearing the official Rennes logo greeted any visitors.

The Vicomtesse scooped her baby up and walked around to the side entrance, avoiding the looping road that allowed various vehicles to drop off its passengers. It being a Tuesday afternoon and the majority of France's population busily occupied at work, the museum seemed to be functioning slowly; only two other cars were abandoned in the adjacent parking place. Christine let out a sigh of relief, grateful that Matthieu's shrieks of amusement would disturb a fewer amount of people.

Pushing open the wide wooden doors, she slipped inside, immediately saluted by the thick silence of the massive building. The ceilings arched high above her, murals of the Earth and heavens painted with an amazing degree of detail. Angels shared the landscape with stags and dolphins, children played with squirrels and danced among the flowers, various birds perched themselves on the Lord. The ocean's waves faded into clouds that marked the floors of the holy realm above. The unity of life shone dominantly throughout the painting, securing every organism into its own role in life.

Twin columns stood elegantly, supporting the canvas above. On them, multiple plants and other articles of nature were sketched into the stone by an expert hand.

All of these wonders were lost on the young Matthieu, who screeched with excitement and pointed eagerly toward a stuffed horse displayed near the lobby.

Blushing, Christine shushed him and quickly paid the required amount of francs to enter the actual exhibitions featured at ­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­the museum.

To the right lay the countless amount of European art, ranging from the soothing tones of landscapes to the fires dancing wildly in the eyes of gods. To the left, collections of stuffed fauna were displayed, bringing the world of wild animals into a single room. Naturally, Matthieu tugged his mother toward the animals, where he could finally experience the pleasure of inspecting an animal without it sprinting away at the first opportunity.

The small hallway lead to an open room. Conveniently silenced with amazement, the toddler began a subconscious routine of slowly approaching a displayed animal, staring at it for a moment, walking around it if it was particularly interesting, pointing it out dutifully to his mother, then pitter-pattering over to the next one. Zebra, lion, panda, beaver, moose…

"Maman!"

The panic cry exploded throughout the room, startling a nearby couple. Matthieu stumbled toward Christine, tears building up in his eyes. Once safely settled in her arms, Matthieu's wail subdued to raw whimpers. He buried his face in her thick hair, arms wrapping themselves skilfully around her neck.

"Matthieu… mon petit, what is the matter?" Christine whispered in soothing tones, rocking him against her with a comforting rhythm.

Without turning his head, he thrust his finger in the general direction that he came from.

Christine looked. The moose, the owl… she gasped. A solid three feet in diameter, a spider was propped up with several pieces of wood. It was completely black, with an abundance of black hairs coating the back and fading away as they reached any of the eight repulsive legs. Gleaming teeth stuck out of the mouth at odd angels, while the eyes popped threateningly out of the skull. Of course, it wasn't real, but the source of Matthieu's fear was obvious- the thing was truly hideous.

"Shhhh.. it's only a model. Spiders may be ugly, but they don't mean any harm. Please stop the tears… Look, Matthieu! Look at the pretty books!" Christine walked to an opposite corner and knelt down in front of a small bookshelf. She pulled out a colourful cover. _Animals for the Young_. Trying her hardest to distract the distressed boy, she began flipping through the pages. "Look, a puppy! Yes, short brown hair. What does a puppy do?"

Matthieu gazed earnestly at his mother for a moment before replying in a small voice. "Woof."

Christine beamed and rewarded him with a hug. "That's right! Woof. Yes, that's a wolf. And a bird…"

Her whispers trailed away as the boy began to flip through the pages by himself. Sighing, she sat down in a nearby chair and allowed her head to relax. Just a few seconds would be enough to give her tired eyes a much needed break. As long as she could hear Matthieu, he was fine.

Yet as his quiet mumbles and soft turn of pages continues, Christine's rest deepened, eventually leading her to a welcoming realm of peace.

Suddenly Matthieu's attention travelled to something moving near the doorway. The cat that he so intently studied went unnoticed by Christine, even as it left the room and Matthieu followed. A real cat held much more interest than a flat picture of one.

Checking once more that his attire secured the face underneath, Erik glanced out of the window, and, seeing that no one lingered around the carriage, stepped out.

It would do him well to get out of Paris for a day. His determination to continue his life without any traces of Christine de Chagny was strengthened after their unlucky encounter at the Opera Populairé over two years ago. For once, mercy seemed to be shed upon him. The woman had not returned to his life and he was able to enter a job regarding construction. His years argued with his desire to build, so he settled upon drawing out the floor plans that swirled sparingly in his head. Yet when a vision appeared, the overall work required for the building was amazing. Such details and desires were not yet seen by any of the constructors that were asked to give birth to the actual structure. Many explanations and diagrams later, Erik's wants were finally understood and managed to be carried out to a level that even Erik was forced to approve of. However, he knew that if he were granted the ability to sculpt away on the stone, he would do a much more appealing job.

Soon, Erik's plans were honoured throughout France under an anonymous name. Lately, he spent all of his free time clarifying requests and answering to companies that wanted to buy his ideas. He decided that he had the right to treat himself to a little trip to Rennes Museum. While there, he wanted to look at the architectural furnishings on the staircases that lead to the towers… he heard good things about them.

Entering the building, he glanced up at the painting overhead. He smirked bitterly; such an accepting portrayal of life could only be seen in the artworks of young artists with minds unscarred by reality.

After regarding the painfully happy cashier with a sickened stare, he paid and made his way through the framed paintings. Most of them featured similar concepts. The reuniting of loved ones. The longing between loved ones. The separation of loved ones. The interaction between loved ones. While they were unmistakably beautifully furnished, their effect was lost upon Erik. Perhaps not as much_ lost_ as ignored. Rather, tried to be ignored. He gave up and moved toward another section of the room.

Walking unhurriedly, he ventured deeper into the museum. In a way, the building reminded him of his own lair; so many corridors snaking in various directions and random dead ends. Suddenly, his pace slowed even more and his gaze narrowed as he approached a particular painting. With an unrecognizable expression on his face, he trailed one of his gloved fingers over the rough texture of hardened paint.

The whole canvas was covered with shades of black and blue, save for the ghostly moon that loomed fearlessly in the sky, softly tainting the other objects. The bare trees that hugged the sides of the scene were bent at awkward angles, as if bowing away from the nightly orb's presence. Yet one can not hide from nature, and hollow highlights gleamed upon the gnarled bark.

At day, the trees were bathed generously in the carefree sunlight, but the other half of each cycle they were handed over to the guarding grip of the moon. However, the moon gained its light from the sun, so was it really so different? Perhaps the light was manipulated- _subdued_- to meet night's characteristics, but was it not essentially the same?

Erik's eyes swept downward to the glistening ponds etched into the landscape when a content exclamation of "cat" sliced through his concentration.

The phantom turned around and found a smiling infant clutching the wall with one hand, the other extended in a pointing gesture. Again, he laughed, and, shedding Erik a proud look, repeated his sprouted form of "cat!"

Erik glanced down to where the child was indicating, and indeed found a black cat sitting with dignity near his feet. With an annoyed twitch of its tail in the general direction of the young boy, the cat stared back tiredly at the phantom. Presenting an impressive yawn, it began cleaning its mane of glamorous fur growing around the neck.

Erik pitied that cat. Being chased around by curious toddlers was not one of his favourite past-times.

Apparently, the majestic yawn was an attraction in itself, for the young boy squealed and once again began walking a clumsy path toward the feline. Sensing danger, it gave a disturbed hiss and sprang away. The boy's path momentarily faltered, and then his gaze was brought back to the phantom.

"Uh-oh," he declared with a guilty grin. With an enthusiastic flap of his arms, he began to advance upon Erik.

_Shit,_ he thought, glancing in the direction of the departed cat. _What kind of mother allows her child to wander around a museum by himself?_

The toddler paused a few steps in front of Erik, raising an expectant face to the phantom's, where distress was engraved into every one of his features. He held out a small hand and stumbled out a greeting consisting of "bou joo".

"Matthieu!"

Both faces turned in surprise to the panicked voice.

Christine ran across the hall, her gaze completely focused on her child. She knelt beside him, scolding him for running away and stressing what a fright he gave her, but all the time clutching his small body against hers and covering his head with kisses. When she was content that the boy was once again safe in her presence, she began straightening his collar. She then turned her attention to the man that Matthieu had been pestering, her gaze slowly travelling from his shoes upward.

"Pardon me, monsieur-" her eyes reached the figure's face. A deep blush erupted on her cheeks as she took in his mask and bewildered eyes observing her.

After a moment of tense silence, Erik pointed at the child and asked, "What is _that_?"

Christine rose and linked hands with the toddler.

"_That_ is my son, Matthieu," she replied in a surprisingly steady voice.

Erik's shock was quickly replaced with amusing satisfaction as he realized that the boy resembled Raoul as much as a slug resembles a bear. The dark curls occupying his head were obviously ancestors of Christine's hair, and the striking clear green eyes were exact replicas of his mother's. Even the stubborn curve of the jaw was similar.

But what astounded Erik the most was the way that his angel looked at her son. Such a level of unconditional love Erik had never witnessed, even when she lay cradled in Raoul's embrace. The pure connection of heart and soul was astonishing, and her aura of devotion clearly radiated over him.

Matthieu beamed up at Erik before tugging on Christine's hand. She bent over and he clambered into her hold, comfortably nuzzling his head against her breasts. He contently stuck a thumb into his mouth, signalling that his adventures were over for the day.

Straightening, Christine faced her former teacher and awkwardly motioned to the still bundle lying in her arms. "I'm sorry if he caused you any trouble."

When Erik didn't reply, she continued. "I must get going. He is ready for his afternoon nap and is bound to get rather heavy shortly."

The phantom remained silent.

"Good day to you, Erik," the Vicomtesse bid him farewell, his name sounding forced upon her lips.

She walked past him, her eyes determinedly focused straight ahead of her. Her hold on Matthieu tightened as she could still feel Erik's gaze lingering upon her back. Or perhaps the small head that rested upon her shoulder? She quickened her pace. Letting out a tight sigh, she opened the wooden doors that had greeted her earlier and began walking the stretch toward her house.

When the pair of doors closed, Erik's shoulders sagged as a mixture of emotions stormed within him. As idiotic as he might have seemed with his unusual silence, at least he didn't say something that he would regret later.

He walked toward one of the grand windows that occupied the walls. Brushing aside the thick curtains made from rich velvet painted in scarlet, his eyes followed the Vicomtesse, trailing her path until she blended into the surrounded landscape. Even then, he continued to stare out of window, one thought repeatedly resurfacing in his jungle of tangled feelings.

_No soul was more lucky that Matthieu._


End file.
